ooc;; takes place before the thunderclan gathering
Exasperation. Exhaustion.
Stoatstar was drowning. Each passing day he felt like he was pushing his way through dense undergrowth, brambles raking his coat and threatening to pull him backwards. All he wanted was a moment of rest, for everything to go away. But that was impossible there was no out. Every since his confrontation with Cinderflame, the little brown and white tom had felt impossibly empty. Any progress he had made over the moons attempting to connect with others, finding some emotional foothold... it had begun to feel like a distant memory. Like never before, the leader felt impossibly alone.
No cat could understand what he felt, what he was doing, how he was trying to protect them and he couldn't tell them. To be anything other than a doting Dark Forest leader would put his clan at risk. If any of them died, he would blame himself. If he abandoned them, if anything happened to him, then it would simply be their claws in the pelts of Thunderclan cats. He had tried to silently persuade the clan to keep their heads down and stay in line. Anything else threatened their lives. And they resented him for it, hated him, but it kept them safe as they could be under the circumstances.
Every moment onward, Stoatstar felt his frail hope dying out. It became endless and impossible. The den he resided in became smaller, crowding. He longed to run from the camp and flee from this suffocating circumstance. However, the further he ran, the more his heart tugged him back to came. Caught between his own selfish desires and a crippling servitude towards others, there was no easy satisfaction. A tightening in his chest caused his breathing to become more labored. At least a brief walk from camp couldn't hurt. He would stay close. Just in case.
Erratic pawsteps carried him through a small break in the camp walls. It was normally sheltered by ferns and foliage which had yet to grow back in. Clawing away the debris, the bicolored timed made a note to remind himself later to fix it. Even the thought was stifling. But it was quickly forgotten as he greedily sucked in the late afternoon air. Unfortunately, it hardly calmed the rapid rise and fall of his sides. He shook his head, then his hole coat. There were little times he allowed himself to get this far into his own head but with the dragging sleep wracking his mind, he had little means of beating back his own intrusive thoughts and mounting fears.
Still, Stoatstar continued to breathe, to try to find any sort of grounding. Being out here alone brought as much comfort as could come without any cat by his side. And, Starclan, did he want any cat by his side right now. But he couldn't bring himself to admit that - not to any cat. As he focused his eyes ahead, he crept a tad further from the camp, pushing through the deadened undergrowth and unintentionally stepping on budding flowers. Just ahead he swore he could see the pelt of a cat. Cursing lowly, a mere grumble, the tom wondered why his luck was so terrible that he'd run into clanmates no matter where he went.
Given the light breeze, they likely smelled him already, there was no hiding. Stoatstar's eyes narrowed as he padded closer, peering at the pelt. The cat didn't move, not at all stirred by his arrival. Upon further inspection, it seemed to be a familiar pattered. His heart began to beat erratically, teeth clenched together on edge. Something was wrong. At first, his pawsteps had been rather slow but they quickened in an instant. He wasn't too far from camp and neither was the sight ahead, so it did not take long at all to close the gap. What he saw there caused him to freeze, stiffening up like wet fur on a frozen night. The leader's frame was akin to that of an unyielding icicle. He couldn't move, air caught in his throat and threatened to choke his lungs.
Something stung at the edges of his eyes yet the sensation did matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Stoatstar fell to his stomach, legs going entirely limp. Only once before had he felt so helpless and now the world crumbled around him once again. It was surreal, impossible. Although he knew without a doubt that this was indeed before him, the leader prayed and pleaded that somehow this was an overly realistic nightmare. If the last couple moons had proved anything, it was that nightmares could indeed to more than walk within dreams. Swallowing roughly, the tom slowly began to accept what was before him.
Thrushnose.
The acknowledgement smacked him like the paws of a badger. He retreated slightly into himself, sobbing silently, and dragging himself closer. Her fur was cold, like she had been here alone for sometime. Subconsciously, he figured out what had happened - who would have done this. The odd scent was that of their ever present shadows. His mother had been unable to deal with their constant watch on camp. This was the very thing he tried to avoid, what he had worked so hard to save them from. And he couldn't even protect his own mother.
A sob shook his chest and for quite some time, he laid there - limp and hopeless. What would be waiting for him back in camp? The prying glares of unhappy clanmates. Dark beasts. Suddenly, he was reminded of moons ago, underneath the pale light of the stars, as he curled around the cold form of a snake. The lifeless creature had provided comfort. Not much had changed. But this time the still frame was that of his mother, his guide, the only thing he had clung to since kithood and through any challenges that had come his way. She was gone. Thrushnose was dead.
It was mousebrained. He wanted to blame her, to yowl at her, for putting herself in this position. Yet they had all been trapped like mice underneath claws of their oppressors. And screaming at the dead would do nothing. He'd sat there for so long that the weeping had turned into mere sniffles. Eyes were bright red, a reminder of the time he'd spent here. Sadness had begun to twist into rage, becoming an unstoppable conglomerate of the thrashing feelings and insatiable longing for sleep. Never before had Stoatstar known such anger. He wasn't the type of cat to yowl, he was the kind to think. But seeing the dead corpse of his mother lying before him... rational thoughts were far behind.
The twisted expression across his features was uncharacteristic. Reddened eyes and a stony scowl could be seen behind the fur in his maw. At some point, Stoatstar had grabbed Thrushnose, determined to bring her back to the camp back any means. They would mourn her. And he would not let this happened ever again, if he could help it. He couldn't lose anyone else.
One pawstep at a time. And then another. It was an arduous process to the camp entrance, he'd forgotten about the break in the wall. The entire way something was burning, knotting, writhing like a snake... tears were gone. In their wake, there was only anger and loneliness.
Tonight was the gathering after all. It was only fitting he addressed the clan.
